It had rained during the night but stopped by the time Holley went around to Selim's, where he found a simple breakfast of croissants, coffee, and ripe bananas waiting. Selim wore a French beret and a black duster coat as they made their way through several backstreets and came to a mews named Friars Yard. He produced a key and opened the end garage, revealing a black Mini Cooper.

"A factory limited edition, small but deadly. I indulged myself. It will do in excess of a hundred and twenty-five miles an hour."

"And have you?"

"That, Daniel, is my dark secret. Would you care to drive?"

"It's been rather a long time since I did, but Daniel Grimshaw does have a perfectly valid forged license."

"Then put your umbrella in the back with the other one already in there."

"You think it will rain again?"

"Absolutely. This is England, Daniel. Off we go, and if you decide to have a crash, do it with style." With the driving, it was as if he'd never been away, for the Mini Cooper handled superbly, and they had a good fast run from London to Guildford and all the way to Chichester, where they had a pit stop at the Ship Hotel and more coffee.

After that, they followed the Mini's Sat Nav through a maze of country roads and came to Patch End, and Holley pulled up at the side of the road. There was a salt marsh, an inlet with four houses, three old-fashioned fishing boats beached on the shingle, and a small motorboat.

Selim opened the glove compartment and took out a pair of Zeiss binoculars. He peered down. "There's a woman in the garden of the end house hanging out laundry. Do you want to take a look?"

Holley did and nodded. "I know Chekhov owns a house down there, and I bet that's a lady named Lily White. Her son, Jacob, keeps an eye on things for Chekhov while he's away."

"It wouldn't have much traffic down there. We'll go and see what Bolt Hole has to offer."

A mile farther on, they discovered a pub set back from the road with a sizable garden. The main part of it was undeniably old, but there was a modern extension that suggested a motel. It looked anything but prosperous, and it was just at that moment that the weather broke again.

"Rather sad, when you think of it," Selim said. "Imagine staying at that place in the rain."

"Well, Chekhov fell in love with Bolt Hole, told me so himself," Holley said. "So let's go and see why."

There were no cliffs but a headland of sorts, with a fringe of trees on top, a small car park behind, and the marsh below, with the causeway running out to the island. It was beautiful beyond doubt: the old house, the sea, and, every so often, a strange geyser of foam erupting.

"So that's where the name Bolt Hole comes from," Holley said, raising the binoculars. "Spectacular."

"Very impressive," Selim said. "And so is the motor yacht at the jetty on the seaside."

"It's called the Mermaid." Holley focused the binoculars in time to see a thickset, rough-looking man wearing a battered naval cap and an old reefer coat emerge from the wheelhouse.

"Jacob White in the flesh," Holley said. "Talking to someone on his mobile."

"There's a Mercedes coming in from the left down there."

Holley swung around to observe and received a shock, for the Mercedes turned along the causeway, pulled in on the jetty beside the Mermaid, and stopped at the gangway, where Jacob White stood waiting. Ivanov got out from behind the wheel, and Chekhov emerged from the passenger side.

"I'd like to say I can't believe it," Holley said. "But I do. Let me fill you in on these two."

He explained, and Selim said, "Well, you could say the plot thickens. But let's move, we may be noticed."

"They weren't supposed to go even near each other. The only communication was supposed to be by Codex. So what are they up to?"

"Ivanov's your biggest problem, the young military action dog who wants to be in charge."

"And Chekhov?"

"My dear Daniel, you took me into your confidence last night. You gave me no specifics, but forgive a man used to subterfuge when he guesses that this all has to do with the Russians. And by the Russians, I assume it leads to Putin."

"The man himself."

"Max Chekhov is an oligarch, and they've fallen increasingly on hard times in the financial mess of the world of today and they need to look to the Kremlin for support. Chekhov has more to contend with than most, since he was chosen to head Belov International when the State took it over again."

"In other words, he's a Putin man." Holley nodded. "Lermov told me that Putin told him Chekhov was the only oligarch he had any time for, and that was only because he had him in his pocket."

"So what would you like to do now?" Selim asked, but didn't get an answer.

A harsh voice called, "Hold on, you two. What are you doing sniffing round here? I saw you looking down at the boat, and you had binoculars."

"I think you're mistaken," Holley called, and hissed at Selim, "Keep going, let's get out of here."

Behind him, Jacob White increased his pace, reached out, grabbed Holley, and swung him around. Selim also turned and saw Chekhov and Ivanov toiling up the path behind.

"My God, it's you," Ivanov called. "Hold him, Jacob."

Holley, on the half turn as Jacob swung him around, delivered a reverse elbow stroke into the mouth, and, as Jacob doubled over, raised a knee in his face that lifted him backwards. The result was quite devastating.

Chekhov and Ivanov paused, Chekhov looking shocked. "Daniel," he said. "What's going on?"

"I might ask you the same thing," Holley answered, and Ivanov pulled a Makarov out of his trench coat pocket.

"My turn, you bastard," he said, and shot him.

It was like a tremendous punch in the chest delivered by a sixteen-stone heavyweight fighter, and Holley staggered, lost his balance, and fell on his back. From the first impact, he had taken one deep breath after another, for sometimes the force of a blow into body armor could induce unconsciousness. All those years ago in the camp, he'd been trained to handle such a situation.

He closed his eyes, heard Chekhov say, "You've killed him, you fool, you've ruined everything."

"The bastard deserved killing." Ivanov dropped to one knee. "I think I'll give him one in the forehead just to make sure."

Holley drew out the Colt.25, opened his eyes, reached up, and shot off half of Ivanov's left ear. Ivanov screamed, dropped the Makarov, and got to his feet, clutching the wound, blood streaming through his fingers.

Holley got up, aware of the pain in his chest and still breathing deeply. "I don't know what's been going on, Max, between you and the boy wonder here. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I've organized everything for Friday, completed my side of the bargain, but what have you and this piece of dung been up to, that's the question. I don't think Lermov will be pleased, and God help you with Putin if he found that everything had been turned into a cock-up because you and Ivanov had a different agenda."

Chekhov was horrified. "I didn't intend anything like this, Daniel, believe me. What am I going to do?"

"There must be a first-aid kit on the Mermaid. Strap him up, put him in the backseat, and get back to the Embassy in London. Next time, I really will kill him." He nodded at Jacob White, who had managed to get to his feet. "Maybe the last of the ape-men can give you a helping hand."

"I don't think he can even help himself," Chekhov said, and walked a few yards after them as they went to where the Mini Cooper was parked. He took out his diary and its pencil.

Selim saw what he was doing. "Ah, you are noting the number, hoping to trace me? It is Algerian, my friend, quite untraceable."

Holley turned. "Grow up, Max, or do you want a bullet yourself? Just piss off, and tell anyone who needs to know that everything is organized, or, as I suspect Caitlin Daly would say, on Friday we'll 'astonish' the world."